


in tiny black print

by green_dragons



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alley Ways, Batman - Freeform, Bruce's mind is messed up, M/M, Newspapers, Superman - Freeform, Vague Kissing, green apple ice pops, odd weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_dragons/pseuds/green_dragons
Summary: Flying wrapped in Superman's arms, being comforted in the alley behind a bar, sharing a popsicle on a sun-drenched roof, Bruce finally feels vulnerable.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 27
Kudos: 151
Collections: Superbat bottom Bruce & Top Clark1





	in tiny black print

**Author's Note:**

> this story does not in any way follow how the DCU works. I haven't watched the movies or read the comics in _years_ , but I had an idea and just decided to warp the whole thing to make it work for me ;)

Clouds swept low over Gotham’s sky, smothering the buildings in a thick blanket of fog. Bruce frowned a bit as he looked out over the endless gray. It was cold, bitingly so; he could feel it seeping through the walls. The wind tore through the trees as he watched, shaking leaves of crimson and auburn to the ground by the dozens. They tumbled over cracked sidewalks, skittering along like mice running from a broom, occasionally being caught by schoolchildren stomping down onto them in hopes they would hear that satisfying crunch. It wasn’t _unusual_ , per se, just unexpected at so early in the year; they had barely crossed the threshold of October.

He shook his head and turned away from his kitchen window to pour himself a cup of coffee, picking up the newspaper Alfred had left on the counter. Sitting heavily at his dining table, he gave the front page a fleeting glance before making to turn the page -- and nearly tearing the paper going back to the headline. 

Splashed across the headlines in big bold print were the words: _Superman and Batman, having an affair?_ Bruce would have scoffed at the ridiculous wording (an _affair_ , really?), but was too occupied staring in horrified fascination at the article to find humor in the situation. He skimmed the neat black words, and caught phrases like _long time coming,_ and _something more?_ and _anonymous sources say…_

Several grainy black and white photos lined the printing along the right side, and Bruce left those for last, feeling a strong wave of irrational fear. He could think of several compromising situations in which it looked like they did things, and once...

He left his coffee cup on the table devoid of dark liquid, his throat thoroughly burned.

-

The convenient timer on the bomb was slowly counting down to zero, and three kids were still in the building, hanging out of the window, screaming for help. The other superheroes were still preoccupied with disarming the other bombs helpfully left throughout the city of Nanner, South Dakota. The newest villain, a man without a name or a purpose who simply had a plethora of bombs, had died long ago. He was a coward; exploding himself as soon as he saw the troupe of heroes.

Batman knew it would take too long to try to get all three kids to safety by himself, so his only option was to disarm the bomb. With barely two minutes left he knew this was next to impossible. 

But the kids. 

With a snarl, he fired his grapple gun and swung from building to building, scaling the walls of the skyscraper the children were in, groaning inwardly, not for the first time, at his inability to fly or move fast in any superhuman way. His flimsy human shoulders were in agony from swinging so quickly, and his fingernails were starting to bleed from the harsh metal and concrete under them.

He swung himself onto the roof and sprinted to what looked like a medley of several metal shapes covered in wires lying innocently enough in the center. 

Forty-five seconds. 

He reached into his belt to grab a square of the special cloth he had been working on, made out of material able to absorb the impact of the bomb exploding. His hands came up empty and he swore. He supposed he had used the last bit with the last explosive.

The bomb was covered in wires, knotted and tangled like thin metal snakes. Batman knew many of them meant nothing. This made his job a lot harder; these bombs were not meant to be touched in any way after they were dropped, and certainly not disarmed.

Digging frantically through the tangled metal he heard a faint voice behind him call his name. He ignored it and continued prying the explosive open, finally able to reach the even more confusing inside. Digging wire cutters out his pocket, he felt around for the center of it all. He found it with no trouble as fifteen seconds showed, a mass of metal cylinders and thicker wires.

He peered in, growing desperate as ten seconds ticked down to…

Nine…

Eight…

He had no idea whether the children had been rescued or not, and wasn’t sure if he could live with himself if they died because of his own silly human instincts of self-preservation. He grasped one that seemed correct and gritted his teeth as angled his arms to get the cutters inside. 

Three seconds. 

His wire cutters would easily snap the wire, there was no question about that, but whether it was the right one was to be found out.

Two seconds.

He really hoped this was correct.

One second.

It wasn’t.

But it didn’t matter. As the bomb started to shake, sudden pressure was gripping his upper arms and strong thighs were wrapping themselves around his waist from the back. He was airborne now, but not moving in a particular direction. 

He was fine with that. From here he had a clear sight of the weapon, and as it blew up he supposed there was something beautiful about a bomb exploding. It was all so quick, but in those few seconds of destruction, there was a riot of color. Clouds of fire and sunlight bloomed from one spot, accompanied by a rattling _boom_ that could be heard hundreds of feet away. It was terrifying, and it was beautiful, and it was a wonder that a tangle of wires and chemicals could contain such beauty and terror.

And then color was gone, faded into several shades of black and white smoke. Without asking, they were suddenly turning away and flying off into the waning sun, leaving the rest of their team to deal with the police.

“Really, you need to stop getting yourself in these messes,” Superman chuckled behind him, tightening his thighs and arms around Batman as they climbed in altitude.

“I had it under control.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said calmly, not even raising his voice, frustrating Batman further. A single thought suddenly lanced through his brain, searing white-hot guilt into his mind. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten about the children! He made a strangled sound of distress.

“The children-”

“-are safe. Unlike you, I might add.” Batman nearly wilted from relief, ignoring the disappointment in the tone, and completely blocking out the second sentence. He settled for staring down at the city as they flew over it, refusing to answer. “You’re hurt,” Superman said, tone now serious.

His fingertips were covered in blood from scaling the skyscraper and he knew his uniform must look a mess. Belatedly he realized he had lost his cape somewhere in the throes of today’s events. He decided it didn’t really matter.

“Not really,” he muttered. “I barely feel it.”

That was true, at least. He found it hard to concentrate on his pain when the cool air that was blowing all around him was so deliciously relaxing, so calming. He wished more than anything to be able to take his cowl off, to let the wind tangle through his hair.

He _was_ tired, however. The adrenaline had completely worn off and left fatigue and pain in its wake. It ebbed over his mental state and it was all he could do to not sink back into Superman’s firm hold.

The alien was flying vertically, he realized, for his benefit. He knew it was much more comfortable to be horizontal, but his friend was doing this for _him_. A sudden rush of gratitude overcame him, and he wondered exactly how far Superman would go for him. He knew he was the trusting sort, the kind of person that would get as close to someone as possible if they liked them. It explained why Superman still stuck around Batman even if he had never told him anything about his life, anything about his intentions, his identity…

Batman swallowed heavily. He knew he should open up about these things, but he was terrified to do so. Terrified that Superman could get too close, see things that weren’t meant for anyone’s eyes except his own. What if the other man hurt him? He supposed he had prisms around his thoughts, not walls. Prisms took in light and spit out something different, yet the same. 

An interviewer might ask him a question, such as how he felt about the rising rebellion against superheroes in the Northwestern states like Montana and Wyoming, and he’d think to himself that he wasn’t averse to their opinions at all. The world didn’t truly need supers. He knew that. He understood that. The world was just too dependent on them to change their ways, too far gone. Their police just didn’t have the motivation to be as strong as they once were.

He could have told whatever wide-eyed young interviewer all of what he had just thought. But he never did. Instead, he’d filter his answer, give one not too controversial, not too complicated.

“Their thoughts may not be misplaced,” he’d start with, carefully making it clear that he was somewhat neutral. “But heroes are people of necessity. When we are no longer needed we will immediately leave, but until then still do our best to protect the public.”

Bullshit. All of it. But nonetheless, his deflecting would work. Every. Single. Time.

The only time the bad taste in his mouth would go away was when he was Bruce Wayne once more, who could be a little looser with his tongue. He obviously kept up appearances, but ones that had more to do with making sure there were always pretty girls hanging off his arm and a martini in his hand. 

He sighed and could feel Superman tighten his hold around him. 

“Are you all right?” Superman asked, glancing down. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“No, no. Just thinking.” _-about how I don’t want to have prisms around my thoughts near you,_ his traitorous mind finished for him. 

“About what?” Superman asked, relentless.

Oh, to have quick excuses like Bruce Wayne. He really needed to work on this as Batman.

“...why are we flying back?” he finally settled on, actually kind of curious now that he thought about it. 

“I figured you’d rather avoid the press. You look pretty banged up.” 

The simple thoughtfulness of this simple action meant a staggering amount. Batman knew the pace they were flying at was probably a quarter of what the other man would go at if he was by himself. He was slowing down for him, going to all this trouble because Batman looked “banged up”. 

“Go to sleep. We have a couple of hours before you need to move again.”

Batman wanted to protest, wanted to say he was fine, he’d sleep later, but before he could his eyes were sliding shut. His hands, previously dangling stupidly by his side, traveled up his body to rest on the warm calves wrapped around his waist, and he finally let himself sink back into the warm chest enveloping him, his head resting soundly on Superman’s shoulder.

He felt rather than heard a satisfied hum above him, and they were silent once more. 

-

_Oh god._

Bruce stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his living room, Gotham’s skyline stretched out in front of him and gazed grimly at the first colorless photograph. They were basically fucking in the air. 

Superman was clearly flying with him, but the way he supported Batman was absolutely _obscene_. He was wrapped completely around the smaller man like an octopus, his arms reaching under Batman’s underarms, linked together. His legs were so tight around Batman’s waist Bruce could still feel-

-the individual muscles curling around him, such strength carefully kept in check so he didn’t kill Batman. The huge hands settled on his stomach, keeping him from slipping out Superman’s grasp, and the firm chest behind him… Thinking back, Bruce didn’t think he’d ever felt safer in his life.

Carefully setting the newspaper down, Bruce pinched the bride of his nose, wondering whether he should be worried about the next two pictures. If the first one was like that, what on Earth could they have captured for the last one?

-

Batman crept quietly around the corner, holding his cape close to his body -- the better to avoid creating sudden movement. Situating himself between the bar and the dumpster, he wrinkled his nose and peered through the large hole he had carved with his bat knife weeks ago as he kept track of his target. 

He scanned the interior of the bar discreetly from the shadows, taking in the warm atmosphere and tinkling sounds of laughter in his stride. He kept an eye out for his man, hoping he would be easy to spot. He had been following him for weeks, and his full head of curls was hardly difficult to forget. Still, the bar was chock-full on a Friday night and he didn’t seem to be in sight-

-there. The damnable man was right there.

The back corner, a New York Mets baseball cap pulled low over his brown tresses. He was bent nearly in half over the table, talking in a low voice to another man who was clearly drunk off his ass. As Batman watched the accompanying man tipped his head back and roared with laughter, slamming his amber drink back onto the table, spilling quite a bit. 

Batman rolled his eyes at the man and focused his attention back on Carlston. He hated his type. He was the type of man to con people into doing things for him, the kind of men who hired others to do his dirty work while he escaped virtually unscathed. Nearly ninety cronies of his, an almost unheard of number, had been arrested for things Carlston made them do. 

Sabotage, vandalism, theft, the occasional murder, Carlston’s men had been checking everything off the list. The man was wanted in four countries, and people clearly knew what for, but no one could ever find any evidence, nor ever seemed to remember what he looked like. No matter. Batman was going to witness evidence tonight. The whole reason Carlston led this life was to get back at a family who had owed his father quite a large sum of money. Talk about cliche. At this point, even something as simple as ‘forgetting’ to pay for a drink would land him a life sentence.

He had been watching the man for quite a while now, always waiting for him to slip up. But today was different. Very faintly under the man’s shirt could Batman see the telling bulge of a firearm, something he would have missed had he not been deliberately looking for it. 

Carlston was acting differently, too. He frequented this bar nearly every night but had never paid so much attention to another patron before. He was _still_ talking to the man, even though said man clearly was too drunk to understand anything he was saying, much less remember it. 

Unless… Batman slowly moved his hand down to his tranquilizer gun, deftly removing the safety and pulling it out of its holster, mirroring the movements of his target’s own creeping hand. The wasted man hardly took any notice of these subtle events and started singing. Off-key and loud, the singing drew the attention of other drinkers, and Carlston hurriedly removed his hand from near his shirt, ducking his head low to avoid being seen more than he needed to. 

Nearly ten minutes later, Batman was still watching the tiring charade of Carlston chatting idly to the man, said man not paying attention, and he began to grow tired. Perhaps nothing was really going to happen after all.

There was a sudden movement, quicker than lightning, and Carlston had the gun pressed to the man’s thigh under the table. The drunk instantly sobered, turning somber bloodshot eyes on Batman’s target. 

Batman knew it was now or never. He carefully aimed his gun, going for Carlston’s neck and shoulder junction. His finger hovered over the trigger, feather-light on the smooth metal. 

Carlston became more aggressive, whispering harshly into the man’s ear now and digging the firearm into his thigh to the point where it must have been quite painful. His own finger twitched and Batman closed one eye, balanced himself, and pulled the trigger.

“What are you doing?” The voice was casual, light, conversational even.

Batman swore and his hands jerked, sending the dart directly into the neck of young women of about twenty, who instantly collapsed. He whirled around, standing up and raising his gun in half a second, wondering who on Earth had found him and knew enough about him to ask such a thing. 

Of course. The other man leaned against the wall, muscled arms crossed against his frame, seemingly trying hard not to smile. It took everything in Batman not to swear at him. 

“I was doing something important!” he hissed, stalking closer to Superman. 

“No, you were trying to incapacitate someone the police clearly told us to leave for them,” Superman clarified. “Honestly Batman, I know you insist on not following orders but even this is too far for you.” 

Batman growled. “I had him. I was so close!”

“I’m sure you were,” Superman said calmly, “but this is a matter for the police.”

Batman felt his blood boil. Who was this spandex-clad man telling him what to do? If he wanted to babysit the police in Metropolis, fine. But trying to extend his rule to Gotham? That was just not going to fly. His hands curled up into fists by his sides, and he clenched his jaw.

“Control yourself,” Superman told him warningly, eyes narrowing slightly. And that was fucking it. He’d had it. In two seconds Batman had the other hero pressed against the dirty stone of the alleyway, a look of pure liquid nitrogen trained on the other man, who didn’t even seem fazed. 

“You don’t control me. Nobody does,” he hissed, holding his face too close for either man’s comfort. How _dare_ he try to control Batman? What right did he have?

“Be that as it may,” Superman whispered in an equally quiet voice, “there is a certain level of etiquette you are required to retain if you are to protect this city. Stepping back sometimes is the right choice.”

“Carlston was going to kill him!” Batman exploded out. Killing went against everything Batman believed in and worked for. Murder was never the answer. He spent all of his time measuring chemicals and running tests and modifying his guns to _safely incapacitate_ people, instead of doing the easy thing and running to the nearest ammo store.

“I know. You can't save everyone.” Superman said soothingly, and suddenly Batman was pulled into his arms. A hand was rubbing across his back, gently coaxing the Caped Crusader to relax. The crusader in question couldn’t quite convince himself to protest or tense or even feel weak. All at that moment he could feel was sudden safety, safety from the horrors of Gotham’s occupants and their desire to kill, from the pressure that was put on him every night, from the criticism that was put on him for simply trying his best when he knew full well it would never be enough, and most of all from the things he couldn’t control, the people he couldn’t save. 

-

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck and picked up the newspaper again, examining the photograph under the first one. This picture was even more private than the last moment, and it seemed to leer at him from the paper.

It was true that the lighting was shit, as it usually was in naturally dark alleys in the evenings, but Batman was clearly shown completely sinking into Superman’s hold, their height difference obvious at the angle the picture was taken at. The nose of the cowl was pushed into Superman’s shoulders, and his black cape was completely surrounding the two of them. One of Superman’s hands rested on the back of Batman’s neck, and the other lay on his back, clutching the shorter man to him. He stared straight ahead, looking content with being pressed against the smelly alley wall by his colleague, seemingly at peace.

Bruce remembered the encounter all too well. 

He had never been warmer in his life. Heat radiated off Superman at all times, a byproduct of getting most of his energy from the sun. It was astoundingly comforting, and Bruce remembered hoping it would never end. Is this what he had come to, then? Dependent on whatever comfort he could take from Superman? When he didn’t even know the man’s real name, or favorite color, or other hobbies? He didn’t know whether he drank coffee, or how he took it if he did, he didn’t know his intentions, he didn’t know what Superman, who seemingly had everything, wanted to get from the one life he had?

And to think, would Batman ever think to ask? More importantly, was he strong enough?

How could he place so much trust in a person he barely knew? How could the same person give trust back? Bruce was used to nearly everything coming easy, except for his work when it came to Batman. He considered being on friendly enough terms with those he worked with as a superhero a near chore, and yet this had been made easy now too. All his talk of being alone, working alone, living alone, to be unraveled by the gentle understanding of one man?

Superman was like a barely healed wound on Batman’s side. Scabbed over enough that he was no longer in pain, but not enough to feel no discomfort, to feel completely normal again. In everything he did he could feel it there, constant weight on his thoughts. The slightest movement, the slightest stretch, could tear the wound open until it was gaping and ugly, and he was absolutely _terrified_ of that happening, as he was starting to realize he might be more fragile than he thought. 

For now, all he could hope to do was put on a brave face and disguise his fears of Superman, which he thought maybe, just maybe, had less to do with fearing he might be dependent on the other man, and all to do with fearing what he would do without him.

Bruce took the newspaper to his study and sat down at the chair, leaning down to open one of the cabinets. If he was going to confront Superman he needed to see the last photo.

But first, he needed a fucking drink.

-

The day donned blisteringly hot. It was rare for Gotham, a city shrouded in windy blankets of fog and rain more often than not. The sun was rarely seen, occasionally poking out behind dark clouds to wash the skyscrapers in golden ribbons that reflected off the glass, but never like this. 

Clouds were nowhere to be seen, and Bruce was at a loss. He had no idea what made this day different from any others. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care what the weather was like since he did most of his work under the moon, but today just seemed… different.

He decided not to appear as Bruce Wayne, not wanting to do any work in this god-awful weather. Maybe instead he would suit up early and head out, find some shadowy corner of the city he could brood in until the sun went away. 

Deigning not to take the Batmobile, he instead walked through the city, hiding in whatever shadows and back alleys he could, grappled onto the nearest building and pulled himself onto its roof without his usual grace, staggering a bit once he had righted himself. He crossed the entirety of the plain concrete in three great strides, and sat down on the other edge, his cape swooshing behind him as he sat and dangled his legs over the side.

He felt like he was being positively _baked_ , but even as he tilted his face up to the sun and let its glaring intensity wash over his face he thought it was sort of… nice.

Nobody was around to bother him, to ask him questions, to distract him. Yes, under all the kevlar and blackness he was burning up, but it was an all-consuming heat instead of concentrated, and left him feeling a bit like he had gotten too close to an oven, but in the most pleasant way possible.

Really, what was happening to him? First he avoids work and now he’s enjoying the _sunshine?_ He was Batman, for goodness sake! He worked by night, in the cold and dark, not the sunlight!

He grumbled to himself but still shut his eyes, turning his face to the great star above him, resting his weight on his hands behind him. 

“Of all the places I’d expect to see you, I do admit this wasn’t one of them,” sneered a voice teasingly behind him.

“Shut up,” Batman growled back, eyes flying open as he sat up, but making no move to turn around. That was another thing. He was far from the most eloquent person in the room at any time as Batman, but he was never this crude. He found it bothered him, made him feel like his emotions were not within his grasp; like they were trickling through his fingers as water in cupped hands did. It made him feel wary about the man on the sun-drenched roof behind him because surely nothing good could come of a man who cracked Batman’s carefully created facade.

He didn’t bother to ask how the other hero had found him, by now realizing anything under the glare of the sun was Superman’s terrain.

Superman sat down next to him, pressing himself completely against Batman, scarcely an inch between them. 

“Isn’t it hot enough? Must you sit so close?” Batman grumbled, finally peering at his… friend? What an odd thing. Batman didn’t have friends, _tried_ not to have friends, and yet… here Superman was. Sitting companionably beside him because he wanted to, not because he was coerced or forced or had to because of work...

“Yes,” Superman was saying, “and I plan to eat my treat while we do so.”

Batman finally saw what was in his hand, a garish, artificial-looking, slimy green thing on a stick. Jesus, he hadn’t seen one of those in ages. 

“An… ice pop?” he managed, wondering whether that was still the right name for it.

“Er, yes, actually, although I believe they call them popsicles nowadays,” Superman told him, before suddenly pressing his blue-eyed gaze onto Batman. “Batman,” he said conversationally, “when’s the last time you’ve had one of these?”

Batman looked away, mumbled something. 

“What was that?” Superman asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I’ve never had one,” Batman admitted, avoiding Superman’s gaze. He didn’t need pity. It wasn’t even a bad thing. He bet there were plenty of foods Superman had never tried once in his life. Still, he knew how awful it sounded. Everyone’s had popsicles. Everyone except him.

When he looked up, however, the pity he’d expected on Superman’s face was nowhere to be found; in its place was determined cheerfulness.

“Well, we’d better share then,” Superman said nonchalantly. 

Batman stared incredulously at him. “Christ, Superman. There’s only one.” What he really meant was: how on Earth are we going to share a very narrow frozen juice block on a very narrow stick?

“We’ll make do. Now, here. You first.” Superman held the ice pop out to Batman, who contemplated it. He didn’t want to ruin his gloves with the copious amounts of juice that was dripping onto Superman’s own uncovered hands, but he also didn’t want to reveal anything. He had a thought that suddenly scared him: he didn’t really care if Superman found out who he was. It was startling, but Batman was starting to realize it was true. 

Batman was the same as Bruce Wayne, it was true, but he usually kept them wildly separate in the way he presented himself, so separate that to himself they seemed like two different people. The line was slowly getting thinner between them whenever he was around Superman, however, and he knew he should be trying to fix this the only way he knew how. He should be pulling away swiftly, retracting back into himself once more, severing all ties with Superman he had that didn’t affect work. 

And yet, he found he couldn’t. He was so tired, _so tired_ of pretending he was this stoic, deep-voiced recluse who couldn’t stand commitment of any kind. He had too many walls up, too many prisms up, too much of the time. He realized now that if he cut himself off with Superman, that was it. His thoughts were already practically in Superman’s lap, the man knew so many of them, and Batman and Bruce both couldn’t think of a better person to have them. 

Looking up, he saw Superman staring at him intently, quite clearly knowing the inner turmoil in Batman’s head that was happening. He glanced down fleetingly at Batman’s gloves to make the question obvious. _Do you trust me?_

Batman wanted to sob. How could he trust anyone, when he couldn’t even trust himself?

But it was still with shaking fingers that he slid his gloves off, dropping them in a heap on his lap, before holding one hand out for the popsicle. He wished he could take off his cowl too, but that was firmly out of the question. 

Superman smiled blindingly at him, handed it over, and Batman found it hard to look him in the eye as he brought it to his lips.

It was cold. Delicious. Sweet. Tangy. So many words Batman wanted to say. It was, quite frankly, the best thing he had ever had. Not bothered to wonder how much of that assessment was due to the actual taste of the thing, and not because he was here with _Superman_ on a sun-washed roof, he didn’t know. But he didn’t really care. 

He took another bite, feeling Superman’s gaze on him the whole way, being sure to really savor it. He couldn’t help exclaiming slightly at his astonishment that such a toxic-looking thing was actually edible, and was soon slurping quite happily at the damn thing, nearly forgetting was supposed to be sharing. 

“I’m sorry,” he told Superman sincerely, holding out the ice pop and breaking the silence between them. 

“No, it’s alright. You keep going,” Superman said, grinning devilishly at him. Batman didn’t like the look in his eye, but was content to put the pop back in his mouth, relieved. It really was quite hot, and the coldness helped alleviate the heat a bit, at least in his mouth. 

He turned his head to the side, not realizing he was still facing Superman and licked the green from the side. There was movement and Superman was suddenly ducking in, turning his head, licking the side Batman wasn’t.

Batman froze, mouth slack on the popsicle. Superman brought one of his huge hands down to Batman’s, completely covering it around the stick, keeping it steady. The other he placed on Batman’s thigh to aid with balance as he leaned over and thoroughly devoured his half of the popsicle. 

Batman could feel his mouth, his _tongue_ , gently licking the slushy green. His tongue suddenly darted around, dipping into Batman’s side, his space, and took off a chunk there, the muscle nearly inside his mouth. Batman jerked back, feeling overwhelmed.

“So soon?” Superman asked him, a crooked, green-stained grin overtaking his entire face. “C’mon, it won’t hurt you. You did say you’d share.” 

_It won’t hurt you._ As if that’s what Batman was concerned about. Currently, he was concerned with not giving in to his primary instincts and tackling Superman completely to see if the green surrounding his mouth still tasted like green apple. But he couldn’t let that show. So instead, he shyly ducked his head once more, going back to what he had been doing.

Until he wasn’t anymore, and Superman was on top of him, and the sun was being blocked out by those magnificent shoulders, and one of Superman’s hands was splayed on his shoulder, the other supporting himself on the burning concrete, and Superman’s tongue was in his mouth, and it still tasted like green apple.

-

He was out of his study now, a glass of wine in his hand, and feeling much calmer. The picture, the one he had been the most worried about, showed nothing more than Batman holding the popsicle up to his mouth, Superman sitting comfortably beside him.

So much for worrying.

-

The familiar whirring of the AC in the Daily Planet’s lobby was grounding, and it helped him think through what he was about to do. He was here for an interview in one of the Planet’s private talk rooms, and he hoped this time he got a good reporter. One that didn’t ask questions too vague or invasive, or try to ask him “how do you feel about…”

He fidgeted with the cuffs at his sleeves and wondered what exactly he had to say to them. When they had first called him about doing an interview, he had nearly had an aneurism thinking they’d found out he was Batman. But no, as the leading bachelor in practically the whole of New England, they simply wanted to hear what he thought about the pairing.

The interviewer was a journalist which he knew well and was the closest to actually earning his respect. Clark Kent was his name, and he nearly always showed up in shabby suits that didn’t fit him in the slightest way and gave no hints about his true form underneath. Thick chunky glasses adorned his face, and his hair was always slightly rumpled as if he spent a lot of time dragging his hands through it. 

He was sitting quietly in his chair when Bruce found and knocked on the door of his office, sifting through some notes fairly dripping in correctional red ink. He looked up quickly, and a piece of hair fell away from the others, resting in a curl on Clark’s forehead. Something about it was achingly familiar, but Bruce shook it off and instead held out his hand.

“Clark Kent, sir. Pleased to meet you,” the young man said, shaking the offered hand with the firmest grip Bruce had ever encountered.

“Really, the pleasure’s all mine. Shall we start here, or move somewhere else?” He was intentionally quick to move them in the direction of getting started because that meant the sooner he could leave and find Superman.

“Er,” Kent blinked owlishly through those thick glasses of his, but to his credit recovered quickly. “Follow me, Mr. Wayne.”

The other man (who was slightly taller than him, Bruce realized, a fact that greatly annoyed him), led him through the twisted halls of the complex into a brightly lit room with two comfortable-looking armchairs and several cameras.

A dark-haired woman was perched on the edge of one, writing something in a Batman-themed notebook. She looked up and smiled, snapping it shut. “Here you are, Clark. Mr. Wayne, thank you for accepting this interview; I do hope Clark here behaves himself,” she told him, coaxing a habitual smile out of him as she winked. She swatted Clark’s ass as she left, but more in a friendly way than anything else. 

They sat down, Bruce leaning back, the perfect picture of nonchalance. Clark stayed more alert, holding the Batman notebook the girl had given him securely in his hands. He was still smiling fondly. “That’s Lois, she's one of our top journalists.”

Bruce smiled. “After you, I presume?” Clark smiled sheepishly. Bruce continued. “Are you fond of Batman?”

“A bit,” Clark admitted. Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Alright, so I think he’s the best superhero.”

Bruce couldn’t stop himself. “ _Why?_ ” He shook his head like a wet dog, confused. “Don’t you like Superman better? He’s got powers!” He wasn’t sure where this defensiveness was coming from, it was suddenly crucial for Clark to realize Batman _couldn’t_ be his favorite superhero. Batman worked alone, Batman didn’t need _fans_.

“That’s exactly my point. Superman doesn’t have to work for anything. He’s already got powers. Now Batman, _Batman_ has gadgets, he’s _smart_. He’s a man who uses his talents for good, knowing he could die at any second. Superman can really only die by Kryptonite, while Batman could die from pneumonia. Do you see?” Clark pushed up his glasses when it became clear Bruce didn’t have anything to say in response to that. “Now, if we could begin…”

The interview went fine. There was nothing special about it, nothing really out of the ordinary, the only time Bruce regretted having gone to the Daily Planet in the first place was when he had to comment on the three pictures. He kept himself sounding neutral, keeping care not to insult anyone or imply too much.

 _All in all_ , he thought as he shook Mr. Kent’s firm grip once more, _not a bad day._

-

Superman was waiting for him, although he tried to act like he wasn’t. Batman knew better. 

It was ten o’clock, and the sky was letting go of its last bit of light. The stars were already out, twinkling merrily around the pale and yellow glory of the month’s full moon. He was standing on a hill that Batman stood on every night before he went out, as you could see the entire city from that one place. He used it to quickly scour for any big things like fires or many police lights in one place before beginning his rounds. 

Superman was doing that now, back to Batman, frame silhouetted softly by the bright light the moon brought that night, cape fluttering softly in the evening breeze. Batman approached somewhat wearily, moving to stand beside the other hero, studiously avoiding the other man.

Superman broke the silence: “You’ve seen the news, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“What do you think of it?”

Batman thought it was true. He knew Superman did, too. But before they got to the point of no return, before they talked anymore, Batman had to do something he swore he never would. Superman had turned to look at him at this point. His intense blue-eyed gaze stared Batman down, and it only made him more determined to do what he was about to. 

Hands shaking and sweating more than they ever had in his life, heart pounding a relentless rhythm against his ribcage, he removed both of his gloves and stopped for a second to take Superman’s hand.

Superman squeezed it gently, seemingly holding his breath for Batman as the man in question raised an uncovered hand, grasped the black cowl that had hidden his features for so long…

...and yanked.

-

“I’m here to see Mr. Kent,” Bruce Wayne told the receptionist at the Daily Planet. 

She looked up, surprised, but took it in her stride. “Do you know where his office is, sir, or should I call him up?”

“I’ll manage. Thank you.” He took the familiar hallways through the fairly standard building to the windowed room he had come to know quite well and knocked lightly at the wood. Clark peered through the window from his chair, saw him, and beamed. Bruce entered, closing the door quietly behind him, and went over to Clark, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. He sat on the desk, looking over the startling amount of ever-present paperwork Clark seemed to have. “Tough day?” he asked, in remark to the piles.

“Not really, just tedious,” Clark sighed. He peered up at Bruce through the thick glasses he didn’t actually need. “Dinner?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And later on, if Superman and Batman kissed briefly before running off together, capes flying, to rid the world of evil, nobody was really surprised.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you found this okay :)
> 
> This took only a few days, and I'm afraid it leaves much to be desired in terms of being interesting, but I thought it was fun to write, and I have complete faith in their relationship don't worry.


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